The Women of Sin City
by Fufu Gal
Summary: Why do the men always get to tell the stories. Here's the what the women have to say...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ****Sin****City**** belongs to Frank Miller. I'm just playing with his characters a bit.**

That Yellow Bastard is dead. He's smashed, squashed, beaten to a yellow pulp, unrecognizable as anything even approaching human- Though he wasn't all that human to begin with really. I am floating on cloud nine. I swear I can barely _breathe_ I'm so happy. OK so moments ago I was a mewling mess, and right now those places where his whip slashed my back are stinging like nobodies business, but I _am_ happy. I'm happy because I know that my beloved is on his way home.

John. My own darling John Hartigan is on his way to my _crummy_ little condo with its _crummy_ lock and its _crummier_ plumbing. He's exonerated and now, finally, we can be together. I know this because _he_ _told me so_ and John's not the lying kind… Any minute now he'll walk through that door and we'll be together. Together Forever, John and I…

It's getting later, and still no sign of him. I _know_ that these things take time, but one _would_ think that after the kind of day he's been through he would be allowed to go to bed. A thrill of excitement races down my spine when I think about _whose_ bed he'll be sleeping in…

It's too late, something's wrong. John- _Hartigan_ should have been back hours ago and my back is starting to swell. I have a migraine from the sheer _pain_ of it, and every now and then I start trembling and just can't stop. It's ok Nancy girl, get it together. Just breathe in, breathe out… _Where's my gun? Didn't I take the gun with me?_

I must have dozed. What time is it? _It's __9am_ I reach for the phone listen to the emptiness on the other end. My line's been cut… Oh that's right… I was robbed last night wasn't I? Fuckers could've left the phones working at _least_.

I _really _wish I had my gun.

Ms. Johansson down stairs let me use her phone. I called the police about my condo, and stole a bottle of rubbing alcohol. It's going to hurt like _hell_ but I've _got_ to clean these marks. The police are on their way. I wonder if John will be with them…

_Fuck. Oh Jesus oh fuck. _Damnit Nancy! What an idiot you are. The cops haven't heard a _damn_ thing about Hartigan. Last any of them knew he was put away for raping some kid. _Oh fuck no._ I _hav_e to get to the farm. I _have_ to get back to him. But the cops have tagged that sweet little Ferrari Hartigan loaned me. I'll call Kadie and see if there's someone to give me a ride…

It's on the news. It's _on the goddamned news before I hear a word about it._ I feel like _someone_ should've mentioned it. Why didn't someone call me? He's dead. My John, the only man I've ever loved is dead. If the gun were here I'd turn it on myself. If the gun were here I'd find _fucking Senator Roark_ and put a few slugs in him before his secret servicemen could take me out. I'd find that _dumb fuck_ from the farm. What did the Yellow Bastard call him? _Kevin._ I'd find him and _make_ him tell me who killed John. Torturing him would be _easy_ after what I saw last night. The Yellow Bastard brought me in, slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes and he told Kevin,

'You can have what's _left _of her when I'm _done_.'

Now why would that _fuck_ want what was left of my dead remains? I can think of only one thing, and it's not pleasant.

John you _dumb_ adorable _fucking_ hero. Why did you stay? Was it really to clear your name or did you think to take out every warm body at that farm and leave the place in blazes? Or… _And this is the thing that really burns me up_… Did you use that gun from under my car seat and do the job yourself? I have this sinking feeling that you lied. But John, _John baby_, you're not the lying kind.

It's been three days and I think I have a staff infection or something. My back is a mass of oozing blisters and red streaks. I get Ms. Johansson to drive me to the hospital and tell Shellie to let Kadie know it's going to be a couple more days.

Hartigan is being given a pauper's funeral while I let the doctor inject me with some kind of anti-bacterial. He asks what caused the slashes on my back and I tell him I fell down some stairs. Somehow the truth just doesn't seem like it would matter like it should.

While they lower a plain wooden coffin into the hard desert earth I let the doctor wrap my bandages.

While his ex-wife, his lone mourner, wipes a bitter tear from her cheek, I agree to re-dress the bandages every six to eight hours and apply the proper ointment.

While John Hartigan's soul _leaves this earthly plane_ I flash an insurance card at the nurse at checkout.

He's staring at me from heaven, and I'm already planning how I'll kill the _son of a bitch_ who kept him in prison so long. Already forming the plan of how _Senator Roark_, one of the most powerful men in Sin City will die.

_I love you John._

_A/N: Ok so here's __Nancy__'s first chapter. The chapters will skip from character to character (Gail, Shellie, maybe some others… Who would y'all like to read from the perspective of?) I think that this is pretty true to the character. __Nancy__ seems like a victim at times in the comic but the chick has clearly got clout. She's got a gun, and she's as forward as they come with Hartigan. R&R please! Comments and crits are always welcome. - LMB_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ****Sin****City**** is the property of Frank Miller. **

It's nearly a month after Nancy sent waves through Pecos that she shows up again. When she's getting ready in the back I see the almost healed marks on her back.

'What happened?' I try not to sound _too_ alarmed, but I have a bad feeling about those marks. I've been roughed up good and proper more times than I care to admit but I _never_ seen anything like that before.

Nancy goes all quiet for a moment, 'Are they really noticeable?' she asks.

'Nothing the shitty lighting out there can't handle,' I reply.

I think back to the fella that Nancy wrapped herself around three weeks ago. _Old guy_…_Grizzled_. I took him for a cop when he first asked about her,

'This got somethin' to do with that stud muffin you were so happy to see the other night?'

She goes all funny for a second- stiff, like a man goes before he smacks ya one- then she lets it out in a long ragged sigh,

'He's dead,' she tells me, 'I loved him Shell, and now he's dead.'

I give her a hug and try to _pretend_ I know where she's coming from. Truth is, I would be _pleased as punch_ to find out that most of my so-called lovers were dead. I'd probably throw a party. But then again, I can't really pick a good guy from a crummy one- I don't know what it would be like to be with someone nice enough that you care whether they live or die.

'You could've taken more time off you know.' I tell Nancy, 'What's Kadie going to do- fire you? You bring half of these losers in every night.'

She smiles, 'I'm fine. I'll see ya out there.'

She leaves the dressing area and all of a sudden I'm reminded of that time she came in bruised in other places. She had already started her act, and the crowd was lovin' it. I pulled her off the stage when I saw the ugly purple mark on her inner thigh. I'd experienced marks like that myself, and I knew what they meant. She'd started crying before we even got to the back, and Marv took notice. Some college kid… Poor dumb bastard- But he shouldn't have messed with Nancy.

I watch her go, thinking about whoever did that and how dead they must be now. It's kind of funny because I bet Nancy could of taken them herself, she has a gun and _knows_ how to use it. But something about her face tonight makes me think it was the cop. She'd _loved_ him, and it had probably been enough. He'd looked capable of killing someone. I'll ask her about it sometime when she's done grieving, but for now I have my own problems.

It's a man. It's _always _a man. 'Dwight the Fright' the girls call him. They say that I'm a softie and I am. It's why I have such _rotten luck_ with men. Ever since I was little I've tried my hardest to please the hardest men to please. Every time I fail I pick myself up (usually literally), wipe the blood off wherever they've made me bleed, and move on to the next one.

That's the problem with Dwight- He's not like the others.

I met him here at the club of course. He was standing in the doorway a little too long before coming in and I knew he'd be trouble. He walked in an already drunken stagger, falling into a booth in the back. I took him. The other girls won't have much to do with Dwight and his sobbing over that two-timing bitch of his, but I felt- _feel _bad for the guy. He's been done wrong by a member of my sex that doesn't know a good thing when it _worships the ground she walks on_ and that makes him just up my alley.

We had sex at my place a couple of weeks ago, then again last night. He calls me 'Ava' when we're making love, he sobs when we're through, but all of the times I've seen him since he's been _grateful_, _respectful_, even _kind_.

It's a sad day when you love a man for not knocking you down.

But I _do _love Dwight. I love his broad shoulders and his haunted eyes. I love the way he looks when he falls asleep beside me. Like a newborn baby, he looks _just like_ a newborn baby. I want to make him happy in a way I know I never will, but at the same time I'm more than happy to simply be there for him now. Besides… He's really good in the sack.

I check that my rouge isn't covering up my freckles too much and fluff my hair. Dwight's not here tonight which is a good thing since I don't want to dwell on what to do with him. There's a handsome swarthy type in his usual place, he's playing with a napkin and leering at the other girls while he waits. I approach him with a little more sway in my hips than usual and smile brightly,

'Hi sweetie, I'm Shellie,'

He looks up and the intensity of his stare overwhelms me,

'Hey baby, my name is Jack. How's about a brew and a phone number?'

I have a feeling that by the end of tonight this fantastic creature will have more than a number to remember me by…

_A/N: Hmmm… Maybe Gail next? I love Shellie because she seems like the type that gets into a lot of trouble, but is always ready to point out when someone else is headed that way. R&R please!_


	3. Chapter 3

The twins are _pissed off_, and not in their usual 'this job is shit' sort of way. Another girl's been killed- or at least that's what it _looks _like. Who's to say anymore? I've seen more than my fair share of chickies decide that they're _in love_. Those are the ones who you've gotta feel the worst for. Let's say that they _do _end up marrying lover boy. He'll _always know _where she came from and he'll never treat her as anything more than a whore. And when her looks have faded- and they _do _she won't have a comfy job recruiting new girls for Old Town, oh no. At best she'll have a husband who screws around on her. That'd hurt but not as bad as what usually ends up being the case. Most of the time the bastards will just leave, and those iron clad prenupts leave the former light of Mr. So and So's life without a dime to her name and without the looks to make a dime.

Course that's not _necessarily _the case here. The twins are convinced our girls are being yanked by some psycho. They're all worked up about it. Especially Goldie… It's her girls who're going missing. For my part… I watch. I wait. I menace anyone who hasn't got any business being here.

It's not really the disappearances that have me all tied up in knots though. Ha! Tied up in knots- I can't get my mind out of the gutter. What's really bothering me is this business with Dwight. Now I know he's no saint and anyone will tell ya that a few of his screws are looser than me, but he's basically a stand up guy. One of the _only _guys I trust matter of fact.

So here's the thing. He's seeing someone else. I know better than anyone what I am. I've walked these streets since I was still in my teens and I've learned the hard way that I'm never going to be anyone's so-called 'true love'. Nope I'm a hooker and a damn good one. I don't even have to walk anymore. My customers come to me. I accept referrals occasionally, but for the most part I watch over some of the greener girls and take care of a couple of regulars. It's a good gig but it means that the man I've let myself love will never return my feelings.

Oh don't go feeling _too _bad for me. I've made my bed and I'll lie in it until the money stops coming. Then I'll find new girls to lie in it and I'll be grateful that I'm privileged enough to be an Old Town girl. It's just hard when it comes to Dwight. After all that mess with his bitch ex-girlfriend or fiancée or whatever the hell she was he's laid low. I keep waiting to see some sign of him, but I hear rumors that he's been gallivanting with that bar maid at the Pecos. The one he sent me to talk to that time.

She was a pretty thing- freckles, strawberry blonde hair, great tits- and that special sort of personality that would make her a great girl to work for me. But there's insecurity beneath her perky façade. That must be why she's working for scraps at a joint like the Pecos instead of running with the big girls in Old Town.

What does Dwight see in her? But of course I know the answer. Shellie- damnit I remembered her name!- She's a victim, helpless and pretty and all too ready to let a big brave man like Dwight jump in her sheets. I know the kind. I loathe the kind. Compared to her I'm a bulldog. I may be pretty too, I may be a better lay, but at the end of the day I just don't _need _Dwight like he'd like me to.

It's getting late, the day girls are heading home, and the grizzled night women are sliding onto the streets with their wares on display. It's already quiet. So quiet you can hear individual footsteps on the pavement, and the occasional sigh. It won't be a moment and the cars will start to arrive. Sleek shiny numbers with drivers will come down the alley I'm patrolling. Here's where the really expensive girls are. Where Goldie would be if she hadn't taken a night off.

It's funny about Goldie. She's lost five girls. Starting with her favorite, a tough young thing we all called Rosie on account of the rose tattooed on her cheek. She's a popular one, and I can't believe she's not here anymore. Rosie wasn't the type to go all googoo over some stud, but then what do I know? If I can she can too I guess.

Here the cars are. They're gleaming in the moonlight, but they never tarry. They check the prices and accept or decline the services offered and then they're off into the night… Or around the corner where there's more 'privacy'. The air is damp, and I just know that Dallas' cold is going to turn into pneumonia. I'm going to tell her to go in if she starts feeling feverish. The last thing we need is to bring another cold fingered doctor in to care for one of us. It's always the same- Impeccable service with a leer. If they take liberties we could kill them. _Could_ kill them but won't. They have to trust us if they're to keep coming.

There are fast footsteps behind me and Wendy's voice reaches me before I can make her out in the shadows,

"Gail! It's the police," her eyes are bright with tears, and I know something godawful has happened.

"Goldie's dead," she sobs, "Some sonufabitch named Marv killed her and raped her."

I reach for my gun even before I realize it,

"Where is the motherfucker?"

Wendy wipes impatiently at the tears coursing down her cheeks, "I don't know Gail but wherever he is the bastard is dead. If not yet then soon."

I nod in agreement and she chokes a little on her voice,

"What'll I do Gail?" she wails.

"First let's get something to drink, and then let's find the fucker and teach him a lesson."

Marv you asshole you've done it now. Pissed us off royally, but the upside is I hardly think about Dwight at all for the rest of the night.

_A/N: I'm thinking either 'Blue Eyes' or Becky next… What do you think so far?_


End file.
